


A Slytherin Pep Talk

by TheGreatSnapescape



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A stern talking-to, Concerned Severus Snape, Gen, Head of House duties, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentor Severus Snape, No pairing - Freeform, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 03:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatSnapescape/pseuds/TheGreatSnapescape
Summary: Second person unspecified Slytherin student reader POV. Reader gets caught red-handed planning something stupid, proceeds to receive a stern talking-to from their scary Head of House. Read notes for more info.





	A Slytherin Pep Talk

**Author's Note:**

> READ THIS FIRST, for context.
> 
> I do not normally read nor write 2nd person POV or reader-insert fics. This one is purely self-indulgent. 
> 
> It came about because I was in a bad place and the only people who offered me comfort during that time were part of the Severus Snape fandom online. A few people, bless their souls, told me to think things through before acting rashly and asked me to consider this all-important question: What do you think our favorite professor would have to say to you? I answered that question and wrote down my response in the form of this fic. Strangely enough, it helped a lot (maybe just because I am in academia so I both intensely respect my professors and desperately want approval from them, who knows).
> 
> I intended to keep this fic to myself because it's both poorly written and kind of embarrassing that I wrote it at all, but thought that since it was helpful to me, perhaps there is someone out there who would benefit from getting a stern talking-to from Professor Snape, idk. This fic isn't intended to be a literary masterpiece, it's intended to get a point across, so please keep that in mind.

You thought you were being careful. You’d been diligent in your studies, never slacking off just because all of your education would be irrelevant soon. You didn’t alter your social habits (not that you really have any, anymore) because slipping up now would raise red flags. You didn’t want to give anyone any cause for suspicion. When people are suspicious, they investigate. And if anyone found out what you were up to, they’d stop you. 

But your resolve is firm. You’ve been planning this for a long time--entertaining the idea for even longer--and you’re certain it’s the right choice. It’s the only choice. Nothing can change your mind now. 

You’ve put a lot of thought into it. There are so many methods to choose from, some better than others. The Astronomy Tower seemed like a safe bet, if not a bit daunting. You’ve never been a fan of heights, and the violence of the impact makes you queasy. Still, it’d be quick. That was your plan, then, until the day you chanced to overhear some professors talking about renewing the wards and protection charms around the campus--including the Tower. That’s a no-go, then. 

Plan B it is: poison. There’s poetry in that method, you think. Or maybe you’re romanticizing it, but you don’t really care. It’s a practical way to go. You’ve done your research. There are draughts that will kill you within minutes. There are draughts that will kill you painlessly. There are draughts that will do both. After careful consideration, you’ve chosen the one that is appropriate for you. 

You never doubted your ability to brew it. You’ve always been decent in Potions class, and this one isn’t particularly difficult, once you break it down. It just takes a bit of time to mature, and so you’ve been down every night for a week to give it a gentle stir. It’ll be ready by the weekend. 

That’s where you are now, secreted away in an abandoned classroom, moving the ladle in calculated strokes, when a shadow falls across you. You realize belatedly that you forgot to put up your usual locking charms and wards, and you curse yourself. You’d been so careful. And now Professor Snape is looming over you, arms crossed in displeasure, and of all the people in the castle, it just had to be _him_.

“My office. _Now_.”

His voice is low and menacing and brooks no argument. He flicks his wand and your cauldron--all your hard work--vanishes. You stand and wordlessly follow him down the twisting corridors, all the while trying to think of what you’ll say, how you’ll explain yourself. The dungeons are cold. 

You cross the threshold into his office and immediately the door clicks shut behind you. The professor sits behind his desk and you stand on slightly shaky legs in the middle of the room until he gestures to the chair across from him and you take a seat, too. 

For a while, neither of you say a word. He stares at you and you stare at your lap. He’s not saying anything and you’re beginning to panic. You think he knows, but he was only there for a minute. Maybe he didn’t get a good look at what you were doing. You resolve to lie, if he asks. You are a Slytherin, after all. Deceit is in your nature. The only question is, can you out-Slytherin the Head of Slytherin?

“What gives you the right?” he hisses, breaking the silence. You blink, taking in his words, trying to interpret them. You choose your words carefully. 

“I’m sorry for brewing unsupervised--”

“That’s the least of it. I’m more concerned with what you were attempting to brew.”

This is your chance to throw him off. 

“I was just trying to brew some Dreamless Sleep. I’ve been insomniac lately,” you explain. You muster your most innocent expression, praying that he buys it. He doesn’t. 

“Do not insult my intelligence!” he rebukes you sharply. “I can recognize nearly any potion by color and smell alone. Yours was intended to be deadly.”

Maybe a change in tactics is in order. You don’t seem to be in his favor right now. Perhaps…

“You’re a Potions Master,” you begin. 

“And you’re an absolute dunderhead.” He arches an eyebrow. “Shall we continue stating the obvious?” You don’t take the bait. 

“I’m sure that someone with your background and talents would keep a selection of poisons on hand, just in case. And with your level of skill, it would be no trouble to replenish your stock, if need be. So,” you lean forward just a little, placing your elbow on the table in what you hope is a calculated-casual manner, as if you’re conducting a business transaction. “What’s your price?”

His expression is stony and his voice is flat when he says, “I gravely underestimated precisely how much of a dunderhead you truly are, if you seriously believe that I would be complicit in a student’s attempt at suicide.”

For some reason, something twists painfully in your chest. What were you hoping to hear? You don’t know what answer you were expecting, but it wasn’t that. You’re not sure if you’re disappointed or relieved. It’s his turn to lean forward now, and his eyes are narrowed and every line of his face is taut with barely contained fury. 

“How _dare_ you?” 

You feel low, and you want to sink into the floor. Of course, you have brought shame to your House, and he knows it. He knows how weak you are, how unworthy you are, and you feel absolutely pathetic in that moment. 

“Did you even stop to think about the consequences of your actions? How your death would have affected others?”

Now anger surges in you, because it’s not as if he has any idea what the landscape of your life is like, and it’s not as if you haven’t factored “others” into your decision. You refuse to sit here and be guilt-tripped with such flimsy arguments. 

“Don’t tell me my family would miss me! They’re half the reason I’m in this mess. And I don’t have friends. Just acquaintances,” you mutter in defense. 

“Do you know what it would have done to _me?”_ he counters softly, dangerously. 

You answer his grim expression with one of confusion. No, you don’t know the answer to that question. The reaction of one Professor Snape is not something you’d even considered. 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as if attempting to manage his temper before he speaks. When he does, it’s in slow, measured tones. 

“I am your Head of House. That means your safety and wellbeing is entrusted to me. This is a duty I take very seriously. You are not the first to have troubles, and you will not be the last, but know this: I have not lost a single student during my tenure as Head of Slytherin.” Here, he drops his voice to a harsh whisper. “Do you think I could sleep at night, had you succeeded? Do you think I could live with myself knowing that I didn’t do enough? That I had so utterly failed you?”

You’re shocked into silence. You search his face, looking for any sign of deception, but you find none. He is being absolutely candid. If you didn’t know any better, you’d even say you could identify fear, sadness, regret in those expressive eyes. But you do know better. Professor Snape is strong and unbothered by such emotions of weakness, unlike you. 

“It is not your failing, Professor,” you sigh. “It’s mine and mine alone. If I wasn’t so...worthless…”

“Do you know why I am so irate with you right now?”

“Because you don’t want to lose a student under your care, and I nearly put you in that position?” you venture. 

“That’s part of it, yes. But aside from my personal feelings on the matter, I also will not stand by and allow you to waste your potential like that!”

You stare blankly at him. “Come again?”

“You are far from worthless, even if your impressive display of reason and logic tonight seems to indicate otherwise. You have much to offer the world. Dare I even say you can accomplish almost anything, if only you apply yourself? I track the abilities of all of my students, and I have high hopes for you in particular.”

You’ve never heard Professor Snape say anything remotely encouraging or supportive before to anyone, but sitting here alone with him in his office, you wonder if his overly strict professional demeanor might actually be how he expresses his care for his students, rather than a display of animosity towards them. You can’t find the words to articulate how you feel about the regard he has for you, and so you merely nod in acknowledgement, if not acceptance quite yet.

“You need to talk to someone you trust about this,” he says, and his tone is softer now. 

“There is no one,” you reply dully. The professor nods as if he expected that answer. 

“Then you shall talk to me.” Your head snaps up and you wonder for a moment if you misheard him, but there is no sarcasm for once, just a hard resolve and… concern? “Tell me--why do you feel the need to end your life?”

“I--” You choke on your words, swallow, mumble a reply. He sits in silence, hands folded neatly on his desk, and doesn’t push you. Soon you’re spilling your guts to him, about everything, things you didn’t even realize were bothering you, things you haven’t thought about in years, but now it makes so much sense and it feels so good to finally say it. When you’ve finished, you are folded in on yourself, shaking slightly, and at some point you’d broken down in tears but you can’t remember when. You flush with embarrassment at this display of weakness.

Professor Snape doesn’t try to give you fix-it-all life advice. He doesn’t feed you meaningless platitudes about how “everything will be okay” and “it gets better.” You both know better than that. Instead he quietly stands and moves away from his desk. You watch him bustle about the room for a minute out of the corner of your eye, only vaguely curious. 

In the next moment he’s in front of you and something warm is being forced into your hands. You look down to find yourself holding a steaming mug of hot cocoa, much to your surprise. You inhale deeply--it smells sweet and rich--and the generous smattering of marshmallows and froth on top are inviting. You take a tentative sip. It tastes just as good as it looks. 

“I find that chocolate is good for the soul. It’s my go-to when I am feeling... sub-par,” he says by way of explanation when you look at him questioningly. You can’t imagine the bitter professor indulging in anything as sweet as chocolate--it’s the antithesis of his personality. Perhaps the rumors are true and Snape really can read minds, or perhaps your shock is just written plainly on your face, because then he smiles, just a little, and says in a conspiratorial tone, “I won’t tell anyone you have emotions if you agree not to tell them that I do.” 

You recognize the statement for what it is. Everything that has transpired tonight is confidential, and you are not, under any circumstances, to reveal the professor’s more… compassionate side. In return, no one has to know about your little breakdown. You nod your assent. 

“Good.” The moment is gone and he’s back to his brusque, professional self again. “Should you find yourself in… crisis… again, I expect you to report to me immediately. You will _not_ carry out that plan--not on my watch.”

The conversation has come to a close, and so you stand to leave and bid the professor goodnight. Before you can make it across the office to the door, however, his crisp voice cuts through the air once more. 

“Ten points from Slytherin for being out after curfew. Detention for unsupervised brewing of illicit potions. Two weeks, starting tomorrow night. Report to my office at eight pm sharp. Dismissed. And… goodnight.”

Despite the punishment, you smile. Unlikely as it may seem, no-good, mean Professor Snape has given you something you haven’t had in a long time: hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Snape may be a jerk, but he always looked out for the Slytherins (probably because no one else would) and I like to imagine that he took his duty as Head of House pretty seriously.


End file.
